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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27032137">Sear</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeRainMustFall/pseuds/SomeRainMustFall'>SomeRainMustFall</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Prodigal Son (TV 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Branding, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapped Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright Gets a Hug, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Non-Consensual Touching, Torture, both are like two lines and vague but still there</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 17:41:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,585</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27032137</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeRainMustFall/pseuds/SomeRainMustFall</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Groaning, grimacing, Malcolm squints in the dull light of a lantern hung somewhere close and finds he’s been strapped back to the table in the shed. </p><p>He doesn’t like it here. Bad things happen here. </p><p>x</p><p>Whumptober2020 Days 13,14,15<br/>Oxygen Mask | Branding | (alt) Comfort</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gil Arroyo &amp; Malcolm Bright</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>100</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Whumptober 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Sear</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Pls mind the tags, but again, it's vague. Otherwise, pls enjoy ^3^</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The woods are dark, and he can hardly see a thing, but that doesn’t stop Malcolm from running. As fast as he can, until his lungs are burning and his breaths are coming in ragged, desperate wheezes, until his bare foot catches on something and sends him sprawling to the dirt and leaves with a cry he can't hold back. </p><p> </p><p>He spits out mud, coughing. Healing injuries start to drip blood down his body again. A broken bone—maybe two, <em>three—</em>grinding in his hand as he braces himself on the ground makes him sob.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Can’t stop—no—get up—get up! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He struggles to shake off the pain, pushes himself to his knees—</p><p> </p><p>And arms wrap around him, squeezing the air from his chest.</p><p> </p><p>“No! No, <em> no!” </em></p><p> </p><p>He’s wrestled to the ground even as he fights, weak from days—he doesn't even know how many—of deprivation and torture. He shrieks out, “<em>Help!” </em> when he knows he’s still miles away from anyone. Over his face comes the same mask he’s grown familiar with from the moment he was kidnapped, and he holds his breath, because as much as he needs oxygen that’s <em> not </em>what the little tank attached contains. </p><p> </p><p>He strains to get free, to slap away the hands, but he’s not strong enough. He wasn’t then, sleepless, snatched off the street in the middle of the night, and he certainly isn’t now. His captor pins him in place and grins down at him, panting.</p><p> </p><p>“I think you got further this time,” he says. “Congratulations.”</p><p> </p><p>Malcolm twists this way and that, kicking his legs, and the man settles his full weight over him, crushing him.</p><p> </p><p>“Come on, boy. Breathe. It’s time to go back home.”</p><p> </p><p>But it’s not home that Malcolm’s going to be taken. It’s his captor’s farm in the middle of <em> nowhere, </em> where he’s been screaming and screaming for so long and <em> no one can hear.  </em></p><p> </p><p>He heaves his body one last time in an attempt to shake the mask off, but then he can’t resist any longer. He gasps in, just once, but once is all it ever takes. The world spins, and he hears his captor laughing, and then…</p><p> </p><p>And then he's dreaming of Gil, of safety, of everything he’s no longer sure he’ll have again and people he fears will never find his body. </p><p> </p><p>He only wishes he could have said goodbye.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>x</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>The headache when he wakes is never pleasant, though he feels like he should be used to it by now. It peaks the moment his eyes open, fades over the next hours, but there’s a nearly constant throbbing behind his eyes now and it leaves him foggy and slow to react. He’s aching, and thirsty, and hungry, and so, <em> so </em>tired...</p><p> </p><p>"Open your eyes."</p><p> </p><p>Groaning, grimacing, he squints in the dull light of a lantern hung somewhere close and finds he’s been strapped back to the table in the shed. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t like it here. Bad things happen here. </p><p> </p><p>But bad things happen in the house, too. </p><p> </p><p>His breathing becomes harsh, panicked. There’s movement in the corner, and he flinches hard as a hand trails up his leg, his thigh, his chest, to wrap around his throat. </p><p> </p><p>“You want to escape me so badly, don’t you, little one?” </p><p> </p><p>Sometimes Malcolm talks back. Tonight, he just doesn’t have the energy. Instead he watches his captor in silent trepidation, waiting to find out how he’ll be punished this time and hoping it isn’t so terrible he can’t try again.</p><p> </p><p>His captor grasps the handle of the lantern, tugging it off its stand, and places it on the table just beside Malcolm’s arm. The heat is uncomfortable, but far worse is the smile on the man’s face as he sticks the end of long, thin, metal poker into the flame.</p><p> </p><p>“Let’s see if we can’t remedy that, hmm?”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t,” Malcolm breathes out, before he can stop himself. “W-what are you doing?”</p><p> </p><p>It’s not like the man hasn’t been creative in his torture before. He’s nothing more than a sadist, aiming to break Malcolm down for no reason other than to enjoy every second of it. But this is thus far an unfamiliar tactic, and Malcolm swallows a whimper as the poker is removed, glowing red-hot. </p><p> </p><p>The man only hums. He hovers it just above his chest, and then presses it against Malcolm’s skin. Not just presses—<em>digs it in, </em>uses the sharp end to slice into Malcolm’s skin as it burns, and Malcolm can’t hold back his scream.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, shush.” He blows gently on the flame, then sticks the cooling metal back into it. “It was only one line.”</p><p> </p><p>He makes a second. And a third. Malcolm can’t watch anymore, writhing in his bonds as he wails.</p><p> </p><p>He'd been so strong at first. He'd prided himself on it. He hadn't begged until—</p><p> </p><p>Until things had gotten worse. </p><p> </p><p>But now, as hard as he tries, he can't seem to stop the pleas, as useless as they are. They come now, and he knows, better than anything, that they'll come later, back inside the house. Too soon. Far too soon.</p><p> </p><p>He should have run faster.  </p><p> </p><p>Another particularly deep cut has his back arching, and more babbling spilling from his mouth. “Stop! Stop it! Please—"</p><p> </p><p>“Stay still, or I’m going to have to do it over.”</p><p> </p><p>From exhaustion, Malcolm finally does. His entire body trembles violently, his voice reduced to whines, and a last few marks have him drifting in and out of consciousness.</p><p> </p><p>A slap across his face brings him back. The rest of his body has gone clammy and cold, soaked in sweat, but the design across his chest is still radiating an awful, searing heat.</p><p> </p><p>He knows the answer. It was done to <em> hurt </em> him. Still, he wants to understand, always <em> cursed </em>with wanting to understand...and he asks, “Wh...why’d you…?”</p><p> </p><p>The man smiles down at him, stroking his hair. He lifts the lantern up over Malcolm’s body with his other hand, humming softly.</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve wanted to know my name so <em> badly,</em> little one,” he says, and Malcolm feels his heart drop even before the man finishes.</p><p> </p><p>“Now you’ll never forget it.”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” Malcolm says, quietly, craning his head, but his muscles are too weak to hold him long enough to see, and so the man grasps a handful of his hair and pulls it up for him.</p><p> </p><p>Amidst all of the other healing wounds and scars that the man has placed upon him, right above his heart, branded into his skin <em> forever, </em> is the name of his captor. The one he's asked for, again and again in increasingly frantic attempts to make a bond that would save him more pain, maybe save his life.</p><p> </p><p>Having it used against him like this...it steals his breath away, and he can’t take another.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you like it?” the man asks into his ear, stroking just beside the marks. “The way you were squirming, I’m surprised it’s legible at all. But all things considered…I think it turned out well.” </p><p> </p><p>He runs a fingertip over the first line, and Malcolm finally chokes out a sob, trying to turn his head away. The man keeps his grip tight, keeps him in place, forcing him to look.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not the worst thing he’s done.  It’s just another way to claim him, when he’s already run through every other option.</p><p> </p><p>Still, as tears run down his face, he gasps out, “Wh...what is it f-for?”</p><p> </p><p>The man kisses his temple, deceptively gentle. Always so, until he isn’t. “You will never escape me, Malcolm. You’re mine. I’ve made you mine, haven’t I?”</p><p> </p><p>Malcolm whimpers. It seems to be enough of an answer. The man grasps his chin, pulls it until he’s forcing Malcolm’s eyes to meet his own.</p><p> </p><p>“Look at this next time you want to leave,” he says. “Really look at it.” He lays his other palm over it, and Malcolm cries out weakly. </p><p> </p><p>“You wouldn’t want them to see you with <em> this, </em> would you? You wouldn’t want to escape and live a <em> life </em> like this, would you? No. No one will be able to look at you again, Malcolm. No one will love you. Not when you have this. Not when they can see you’ve been marked as <em> property.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>The sound Malcolm makes is embarrassing. It makes him feel even weaker than he is. And when more tears come, he can’t stop them, either.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, sweet boy. That’s right...it hurts, doesn’t it? You’re in pain, aren’t you? Good...that’s very good. Oh, you’re so beautiful when you cry, little one…”</p><p> </p><p>He kisses Malcolm’s cheek, and Malcolm flinches. He tries to get ahold of himself, but he <em> can’t, </em> reduced to even louder sobs as the man starts to kiss down his neck, his chest, the same direction it always goes after torture. </p><p> </p><p>The man is right. He doesn’t want to live anymore. He never really did in the first place, and now…</p><p> </p><p>“But you don’t have to worry. <em> I’ll </em>always want you, Malcolm...you look so much better to me when you’re bleeding and scarred…”</p><p> </p><p>Hands touch where they shouldn’t, and Malcolm cries out his frustration, and—</p><p> </p><p>And then there’s a noise outside. There’s something, a rustle—and it’s the only warning there is before suddenly the wooden door is broken down, a <em> bang! </em>so loud, followed by shouting, that it all makes Malcolm’s ears ring.</p><p> </p><p>“Hands in the air! Now!”</p><p> </p><p>Another hallucination. Of course. Another dream. He’s had them before, countless times. </p><p> </p><p>But this time the man reacts strangely. In Malcolm’s dreams, he’s either never there, or he comes to destroy the peace once Malcolm finally has it. He ruins it. He’s never afraid.</p><p> </p><p>Here, now, he throws the lantern and <em> runs, </em>is tailed by numerous people labeled SWAT until there’s crashing and swearing just out of sight of Malcolm.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Clear!” </em>someone shouts. “We got him.”</p><p> </p><p>“Bright!” </p><p> </p><p>There’s hands cupping his face, and he screams in fear, tries to twist away. “No!”</p><p> </p><p>“Malcolm! Malcolm, it’s me, it’s me!” </p><p> </p><p>He crushes his eyes closed. His body goes limp, his mind distancing himself for protection. He feels the straps around his limbs come loose, and then a blanket is wrapped around him, and he’s pulled tight against a familiar chest. </p><p> </p><p>It’s warm...he hasn’t been warm in so long.</p><p> </p><p>“I gotcha, I gotcha...hold on…hold on for me, kid, okay?” </p><p> </p><p>He’s lifted, then. His head lolls back, and as he dares to risk a glance he sees the shed and the house and the farm, as far as he can see, awash in red and blue lights.</p><p> </p><p>He’s too tired to see where this dream leads. He lets himself fade, in and out. He remembers a bumpy road, a lot of speaking. A hand through his hair, another mask over his face, and, when he flails to get away from it, a prick in his arm, and then complete and utter darkness. </p><p> </p><p>He finally comes back, lying somewhere soft. He’s so warm...so warm...and for the first time, his head doesn’t hurt. In fact...nothing hurts. Not any part of him. </p><p> </p><p>Definitely still asleep. That only confirms it. He sleeps nowhere but on the floor, chained to it too tightly to wake the man from his own slumber with his terrors, naked and freezing like the man says he deserves to be.</p><p> </p><p>There’s a hand in his own. He knows it’s Gil, because it’s <em> always </em>Gil, and he smiles, allows himself to indulge in the fantasy for just a little longer.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, there…” comes Gil’s gentle voice. “Hey, kid. You awake?”</p><p> </p><p>“Mhmm…”</p><p> </p><p>“Hi, Bright. Oh, Bright. Can you open your eyes for me?”</p><p> </p><p>Malcolm shakes his head. </p><p> </p><p>“No...?”</p><p> </p><p>“Gonna be gone,” he whispers. “Don’t wanna wake up. Don’t want you to be gone again. Want you to stay. Please stay.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Bright… </em>” Gil squeezes his hand tight. He vaguely becomes aware of the weight of a cast on the other, of the sound of a heart monitor beeping, of little things and details a dream could never produce. A clean, medical scent. An annoying itch on the bottom of his foot. The sound of talking, distantly, over a speaker.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not dreaming, Bright.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Stop lying. Please stop lying. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Kid...hey. Come on.”</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t want to. <em> Please don’t make me. </em></p><p> </p><p>“You have to trust me. Open your eyes.”</p><p> </p><p>Malcolm supposes he’s going to have to eventually. The man will be waking him soon, anyway...and doing it himself, instead of by force, will hurt less.</p><p> </p><p>Slowly, he obeys. He blinks in the blinding fluorescents of a hospital room, the daylight shining through a window, and the first thing he focuses on is Gil, looking absolutely exhausted in a way Malcolm’s never seen, sitting in a chair beside his bed. </p><p> </p><p>And the moment their eyes meet, Gil starts to <em> cry. </em> </p><p> </p><p>It startles Malcolm, and then he’s crying too, tugging at Gil’s hand, so <em>confused</em>. Gil doesn’t cry in his dreams. Gil doesn’t cry at <em>all, </em>usually, and certainly not like this. “Wh—what? Why...what’s...<em>Gil?</em>”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry—” Gil manages, wiping at his eyes. “Sorry...Bright, I’m...I missed you so much...I was so worried…”</p><p> </p><p>He looks around again, in awe. “...I’m...here?” </p><p> </p><p>“You’re here.” Gil presses his forehead down against Malcolm’s hand. “You’re safe. You’re here, Bright. It—it took too long...oh, Bright...Malcolm, we tried so hard...we never stopped looking, not once…”</p><p> </p><p>Malcolm blinks. He breathes in slowly. “How...long?”</p><p> </p><p>“Six days,” Gil says, so quietly. “I’m sorry, Bright. I’m so sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>Six days. He was with the man only six days...and it felt like years. It felt like they’d never find him. It felt like he and the man were alone in the entire world.</p><p> </p><p>But he wasn’t. They never forgot. They did what they could. “It’s not...your <em> fault, </em> Gil.”</p><p> </p><p>Gil doesn’t argue. Malcolm knows he doesn’t, maybe won’t ever, believe it. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m really...you’re really here…?” he asks, and Gil raises his tear-stained face, nodding, smiling weakly. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, kid. Yeah. You’re safe. I promise, I promise...God, I’m never letting you out of my sight again…”</p><p> </p><p>Malcolm shifts, just a little. “Gil…” </p><p> </p><p>Gil looks at him like he’d do anything in the world for him if Malcolm just asked him to.</p><p> </p><p>There’s only one thing Malcolm wants, right now.</p><p> </p><p>“C-can I...have...a hug?”</p><p> </p><p>Gil’s eyes fill with tears again, and he leans over the bed, being as gentle as he possibly can. Malcolm feels him crying into his hair, and maybe he’s crying, too. </p><p> </p><p>He’s cried so much over the past six days. And he knows, without a doubt, that he’s going to cry more. Maybe for a very, very long time. He’s going to have nightmares. He’s going to need help, a <em> lot </em>of it.</p><p> </p><p>There's a signature on his chest, a reminder he doesn't want to have anymore. That he doesn't know how he's going to learn to be okay with, through surgeries to fix it or otherwise. Doesn't know how he's ever going to be okay with having had it at all, and that knowledge burns, deep inside, even worse than the flame did.</p><p> </p><p>But right now, he doesn't want to think about it. He tugs on Gil's sleeve, and, wordlessly, Gil settles down beside him on the bed to fully bring him into his arms, and as he buries his face in Gil’s chest, into safety, Malcolm knows that at least he won’t have to face anything else alone.</p>
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